


Contemplation

by applecup



Series: A Series Of Choices And Actions [7]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, Jedi therapy, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecup/pseuds/applecup
Summary: Awenyth Loren, one of the Jedi's most decorated heroes, reflects on recent events. [companion piece to Fragmentation chapter 16]





	Contemplation

Awenyth woke with a start; was uncertain, for a moment, where she even was - and then, as she always did, remembered. 

_Tython_. And then: _Home_. 

Home, or the closest thing to it she was permitted. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that the Council didn’t trust her, that they were still half-convinced she’d come back more Sith than she was Jedi, and wasn’t certain, some days, that they were entirely wrong. The eyes that stared back from her reflection, for example - no longer purple, flecked with blue, but a sickly, unnatural yellow that even now had never faded. Proof that the Force had warped her - proof that she had warped herself, proof that the heart that beat in her chest did so to the rhythm of a march out of sync with Tython’s. 

(The mirrors had all been removed from her fresher, for exactly this reason; she’d taken to breaking them in fits of rage or self-loathing, and the Jedi had tired of replacing them and of patching up her) 

This morning, though, all she had was the warm, soft cocoon of early morning on Tython; of the sun creeping in under her curtains, of the faint sounds of the Temple grounds beginning to stir and the scent of the first meals of the morning being prepared in kitchens that catered to every palate on the planet. 

Breakfast was plain toast, with a smidge of butter - half eaten, the pearjuice half drunk, and half meditated on as she sat alone in the refectory. She didn’t remember dreaming, but knew she had - an unpleasant pair of circumstances on any morning, no matter how sunny. 

( _snow_ , she remembered, that had crunched beneath her feet, like bones) 

\- 

‘Would you like to talk about what happened on Ilum?’ 

Awenyth was lying on the couch, half ignoring the healer’s words. The Jedi demanded she put herself through this spectacle, as though talking out what dogged her steps could do anything but convince them that she was fallen beyond redemption, broken beyond repair. Still, she was afforded small freedoms for her cooperation that she would never have received otherwise, and- if she was truthful, having company that didn’t stare curiously at her retreating back was a pleasant change. 

'Master Loren?’ he added, after a moment - after she failed to respond, in any form at all. 

'No,’ Awenyth replied, after a long moment. She didn’t want to talk about it; she knew that Kyo had made her own report, once she’d recovered, and that it hadn’t said anything pleasant about the state Awenyth had been left in. 

'No?’ the healer replied - his tone surprised, but not critical. The Force offered nothing; he was expert at hiding his aura and responses, and Awenyth mistrusted him all the more for it. 

'No,’ she repeated, closing her eyes. 

 

_I take it back._

 

\- 

The Sith, Awenyth could only suppose, had been an idiot. Or desperate. Or afraid. Probably an idiot. Charging after Kira alone, leaving her companions to Awenyth and Kyo - throwing herself into the fray, in defence of- what? The Seeds? Those foul, ugly things that caused such foul and ugly consequences, twisting everything they touched to a vile parody of what they’d once been. 

Awenyth had seen their rot before - on Voss, at the rotten core of that world’s dark heart. Their architect had lain dead at her feet, but she’d known even then that would not be the end of it. 

_Then what would you like to talk about?_

\- 

Lunch was a sliced pearfruit, eaten over the course of an hour - mouthful after painful mouthful chewed and swallowed as though every movement were being recorded for inspection and posterity. Tython had never started to feel free, not in the all time she’d been here since, not in the way that it once had - someone was always watching, always listening, always waiting. Always judging. 

\- 

She’d failed to report the lightsaber she’d stolen, and it had failed to attract attention; that, or she’d been allowed to lie about it, a test of loyalty and behaviour. Awenyth had stopped trying to second-guess the Jedi and their motives; they were as convoluted as those of Sith, as much as she knew that the Council would have taken that comparison poorly. 

The Darkness around it felt baked in - felt _soaked_ in, as though it had marinated in hatred and fear and anger for longer than Awenyth had drawn breath. It was easy to believe it had, too; the Wrath she’d known had lived far longer than any other of his foul race, and Awenyth had no trouble in believing that his heir would be little different. 

(it felt far more _right_ in her grip than it had any right to; it hummed, when lit, in a way that resonated with her far too closely, and she hated it just for that) 

\- 

'I would like to talk,’ she said, eventually, 'About Master Kyo.’ 

One of the few on the Council who didn’t flinch when they looked at Awenyth; one of the few on the Council who hadn’t been among those who’d sent her off to her fate, and who didn’t simultaneously blame and punish her for, it felt at times, surviving it. 

The healer, though, said nothing; waited for Awenyth to continue, and for a long moment, all that could be heard was distant birdsong. 

'I left her behind,’ Awenyth added, half to herself. She’d taken off, after the young Wrath - left Kyo, who was already bleeding, to deal on her own with the Wrath’s hangers-on, a miscellaneous grab-bag of Imperial stooges. 

'She- had faith in me,’ Awenyth managed, looking up at the ceiling. The paint was starting to flake, in places; someone would have to repaint it before the year was out, and Awenyth wondered if anyone but her had bothered to even notice. 

'I disappointed her.’ 

'Why do you say that, Master Loren?’ 

'Because I- 

_I take it back._

did,’ she finished, uncertainly. 

\- 

_snow_ , she remembered, and ice, and starlight 

\- 

'Master Kyo worries about you.’ A statement, made as neutrally as the healer could; concern slipped in and out of his tone, though she had no idea how genuine it was. 

Awenyth wasn’t surprised - by either the words, or their content. Kyo was better than some on the Council - more willing to get her hands dirty, to admit what needed to be done and to get out on the ground and do it. She _cared_ , which was more than could be said of some - and unlike so many, didn’t see that same caring as a weakness, as a flaw. 

(it had been, it could be; Awenyth knew her greatest failing had always been that she cared, perhaps - at times - too much) 

'The Council worries too much,’ she replied, though, 'About all the wrong things. They flinch at imagined shadows,’ she added, scowling, 'All the while ignoring the real darkness.’ 

'I said nothing about the Council,’ the healer replied - adding, 'Would you prefer to talk about them?’ 

'All they _do_ is talk,’ Awenyth harrumphed, immediately scowling. 'If they did any more than that- 

\- 

and bones, she realises - glistening beneath the ice, scoured of all trace of flesh and sinew-

\- 

A gaggle of padawans who had no idea who she was stared at her all through the evening meal; poking each other and whispering questions, risking glances when they thought she couldn’t see them and giggling over some unheard speculations. 

They would have been sent to her for training in combat, once; she’d have taken them apart, inch by imperfect inch, and lain bare the flaws in their technique (in their attitude, in their bloated, prideful egos) 

but that was why, despite her station, all she was allowed to do was watch. 

\- 

-they might risk actually achieving something.’ 

An old grudge, an old _hate_ , that she found impossible to let go. None of them had risked themselves; she’d been expendable, or so it had felt when she’d been the one caked in blood and sobbing while her dignity circled in the fresher drain and a Sith prowled the corridors of her ship- 

\- 

She fought anyway - found a sparring droid and a training blade, broke every rule that the Council imposed on her as though it might not do more harm than good, and tried to find the place in battle that she’d found her peace. It was an exercise in fruitlessness, though; with no real threat, her mind refused to focus, and her body was thrown off its rhythms and out of sync. 

It was only when she felt the staring, though, that she finally stopped - and turned, and glared, rounding on the intruder as if they were an invading Sith. 

They weren’t, though - just a padawan, one of the gossips who’d stared at her so warily at the evening meal; who stammered in awe and warbled an apology and, when Awenyth did nothing but glare angrily, bowed and turned and fled. 

(she wondered, as they left, if she wouldn’t yet regret every single one of these decisions) 

\- 

'Well,’ the healer was saying, 'It sounds like you still have a way to go, Master Loren. I’m sorry to hear that you fared so poorly on Ilum.’

Awenyth didn’t reply - just stared at the peeling paint, wondering if there was anything hiding underneath it worth seeing, or if what lay beneath was as inconsequential as what had replaced it. 

'I would like to speak with you again tomorrow, Master Loren. With your permission, of course.’

'Sure,’ Awenyth replied, eventually. It wasn’t like she could go anywhere. 'Why not.’ 

\- 

There was a silence in the dark of night she found almost comforting; almost _peaceful_ , even if she hadn’t known peace in what felt like two lifetimes. Not that it was a lie; the Sith were wrong about _that_ , at least. ( _And if they’re wrong about that,_ she always tried to tell herself, _it’s proof they’re wrong about so much else._ ) 

It was a trial, though, and one she felt singularly unequipped to pass, at least when standing in the unforgiving light of day. Here, though, swaddled in darkness, with not so much as moonlight, she could find if not a kind peace, then- at the very least, a comforting sort of lie. 

_There is no emotion. There is no peace._ It wasn’t much. But it would have to do.


End file.
